THE HIGH TABLE

THE FINAL CHOICE: GOLDEN GRAVES

The air grows heavier as I descend into the final chamber.Gold covers the ground—weapons, crowns, relics… all abandoned. And beneath it all—bones. Hundreds of them. The sorcerer watches silently. Now… I understand: “The treasure was never hidden. It was guarded. And every soul that reached this place became part of its warning.”

The pain pulsates in my ribs, deaf, insistent, but I stand up. By miracle—or through sheer stubbornness—injuries are not fatal. My breath is short, but stable. Every step is a choice. My name is Étienne. And I haven’t gotten that far to back up. My boots sink into the gold, muffling the sound of my footsteps. Beneath me, the bones crack. Some are ancient, polished by time. Others... not yet.

Then I understand. Too late to look away. The wizard does not protect the treasure. It protects the message. "You see now," he murmurs. I clench my teeth, my trembling hand gripping my weapon. "No. I see what you want me to see." A silence. Then his smile. And something is changing. The bones are moving. One click. Then another. As if death itself were breathing under my feet.

The relics vibrate, the gold sways, and the dead awaken—not to kill me, but to show me. I feel their weight. Their failures. Their broken certainties. They all thought the same thing I did: “I am different.” My heart races. My breath wobbles. But I’m moving forward. One step. Then another one. Because if this place is a warning... So I refuse to become one more.

!flip

Flip the coin.... right!

I take the path on the right without hesitation, my body bruised, each breath reminding me of the blows suffered earlier. The pain is there, alive and well, but it has lost its power to make me back down. The corridor widens little by little, as if the rock itself was holding its breath as I approached. The air becomes colder, heavier too, charged with an ancient presence, almost sacred. Then the door appears before me. I push her. The room opens in a cathedral silence. The Golden Throne sits in the center, immense, overwhelming, bathed in a golden light that seems to come from no torch.

Pale rays slide on the columns, on the slabs, on the sacred engravings notched in the stone. Everything here breathes power, ruin and memory. I stop for a moment on the threshold. My legs tremble, my arm throws at me, an old wound opens up again somewhere under my breastplate. I feel the blood melting against my skin, but I’m standing up. I have known fear, fatigue, the humiliation of defeats, and yet here I am, at the edge of this forbidden sanctuary. At the back of the room, the throne awaits me like a sentence.

I take a step, then another, my boots echoing weakly on the stone floor. Each sound seems to desecrate the place. Every inspiration is a struggle. But I don’t look away. Because it’s not just a room I’m discovering. This is the ultimate test. And despite my wounds, despite the blood, despite the weight of the fight, I understand that the real danger is not the pain I carry... but what the Golden Throne expects of me.

In front of me stands the Treasure Guardian, an ancient sentinel forged by centuries of watch and blood. His look is fierce, almost bestial, as if the stone itself had learned to hate any intruder. His sculpted face is not human in its expression. The features are hard, cut with great strokes of ancient anger, with eyes burning with a dim glow that seems to follow each of my movements.

His massive jaw is tight as a trap, and his motionless vigilance gives off a threat more terrible than the roar of a beast. His armor, cracked by time but still formidable, bears the marks of forgotten battles. Thorns, runes and warrior reliefs run on his colossal body, giving the impression that he was designed not to protect, but to punish. Even without moving, he imposes a brute terror, a primitive authority. I immediately feel that he is not just guarding a treasure. He is guarding a law. And his fierce gaze already seems to announce that whoever crosses this limit will have to pay in pain, in fear... or alive.

HP Etienne Moreau 19

HP The Treasure Garden 18

!dice 2D6

Roll the dice... ⚃ 4 + ⚂ 3 = 7

Without warning, the guard starts moving. A low rumble crosses the room even before I understand what is happening. Its massive silhouette projects towards me with a brutal speed, almost impossible for such an ancient creature. I only have time to raise my arm that already his attack is crashing against me, violent, precise, as if centuries of war were still guiding each of his actions.

The shock immediately destabilizes me. The pain already present is revived, more intense, and a new injury opens up under the impact. I step back one step, then another, the teeth clenched, the breath taken by the force of the assault. My body protests, but I stand, wobbling only for a moment.

The guard doesn’t wait. He follows up with relentless brutality, each movement seeking to break me further, to prevent me from regaining my balance. His attack is not blind: it is cold, methodical, designed to hurt without giving respite. Then I feel that this fight will not be a simple confrontation. It will be a test of survival.

The Treasure Guardian's Attack: 6 - 4 = 2

Etienne Moreau's HP: 19 - 2 = 17

Etienne Moreau's Attack: 6 - 3 = 3

I clench my teeth and, despite the pain, I take advantage of the moment when his guard opens after his assault. I pivot on the side at the last moment, letting its force pass within a few centimeters of me, then I counter-attack with a short and brutal gesture, guided more by instinct than by technique.

My weapon hits his knuckle with a sharp impact, where his armor seems a bit less dense. The impact resonates in the room, and for the first time, the guard barely wobbles. I don’t hesitate. I immediately follow up, faster than the pain can catch up with me, and I strike again, this time with all the rage accumulated since the beginning of this quest.

The metal crumbles as it creaks, a crack appears on its protection, and a dark light oozes from the wound inflicted. It’s not a mortal wound, not yet, but it’s enough to make him step back. Then I feel something change. He touched me first. But now, he knows that I can fight back.

The Treasure Guardian's HP : 18 - 3 = 15

!dice 2D6

Roll the dice... ⚄ 5 + ⚄ 5 = 10

The Treasure Guardian's Attack: 6 - 5 = 1

The guard emits a mechanical rumble, a rattle of stone and crumpled metal. He recoils, placing a huge hand against his cracked flank from which escapes a flickering gleam, as if time itself was passing by on him. He seems to be temporizing, his burning eyes flickering intermittently, trying to recalibrate his movements under the effect of my retaliation. I take advantage of this short respite to catch my breath, my blood already permeating the floor of this sepulchral room.

But the lull is brief. He resumes his march, more slowly, his massive stature marking an unusual hesitation. When he launches his offensive, the gesture lacks its usual icy precision; he strikes with less momentum, as if the flaw in his armor was hindering his internal mechanics.

The impact is powerful, of course, but I manage to soften the blow against the steel of my weapon. I feel a new tremor in my shoulder, a dull and throbbing pain, but nothing to do with the sudden tear from earlier. He lost some of his superb, and his attack, less fluid, became predictable. I now have the initiative, and I feel that this breach that I opened is the key to my victory.

Etienne Moreau's HP: 17 - 1 = 16

Etienne Moreau's Attack: 6 - 5 = 1

I go forward, but my body betrays me. The fatigue, accumulated since the beginning of this descent, weighs down each of my gestures and transforms my fervor into a painful slowness. My arm, shaken by the previous impact, lacks firmness. I shoot a direct shot at the crack I had dug earlier, hoping to make it bigger. However, the guard, although slowed down, deflects my trajectory with a simple movement of his massive forearm.

My weapon glides over the cold surface of its armor, producing only an unnecessary spark and a superficial scratch on the old metal. It’s a disappointing exchange, almost in vain. The keeper doesn’t even flinch, his eyes still burning with this relentless intensity. I suddenly realize the reality of my state: we are both weakened, two shadows dancing on the edge of the razor, seeking the opening that will allow us to deliver the final blow.

Silence returns between us, heavier than before, charged with the uncertainty of this enduring confrontation. I have to find another loophole, because my energy is dwindling with every second I spend here.

The Treasure Guardian’s HP: 15 – 1 =14

dice 2D6

Roll the dice... ⚃ 4 + ⚀ 1 = 5

The Treasure Guardian's Attack: 6 - 4 = 2

The guard tries a feint, a studied heaviness that seeks to lure me into a trap, but its mechanism squeaks loudly. He sends a massive backhand, a blow that, in another context, would have crushed my rib cage. I no longer have the vivacity of my beginnings, but I learned its rhythm. I let myself slide to the ground, my back against the bones that litter the ground.

His stone fist rips through the air just above my head, taking a piece of my cape but missing its target. The blast from the impact brushes against me, releasing a bitter and ancient dust, but the direct shock is avoided. Still, I get a backlash on my shoulder as he straightens his arm, a painful jerk that makes my teeth grind, but it’s nothing more than a sting.

My bones hold. My breath, although torn from my lungs, does not miss me any more than it did a minute ago. I get up painfully, a grimace of pain stretching my features, but I feel a gleam of icy satisfaction rising inside me. It has become predictable. Each movement is now a struggle against its own decay, and I am beginning to understand how to bring it down.

Etienne Moreau's HP: 16 - 2 = 14

Etienne Moreau's Attack: 6 - 1 = 5

I feel that the moment has come. The keeper, stuck in his own inertia, makes the mistake I was expecting: he tries to regain support on his damaged side to balance his load. This is the moment of truth. I no longer seek brute force, but surgical precision. I throw myself forward, ignoring the cry of my torn muscles, and slip under his massive arm. Instead of hitting the shell, I plant the tip of my weapon directly into the gaping rift that I had previously opened, where the dark glow palpitates with increasing instability.

The metal encounters resistance, then sinks into a substance that has nothing to do with minerals. A sinister crack echoes in the room, followed by a hissing of cold steam. The guard throws a rattle, a jarring sound of tortured metal, and he pivots violently, unbalancing me in the process. I retire in time, but the effect is there: the gleam that animated his eyes flickers intensely, losing its vigor. He staggers, his steps becoming as uncertain as mine. I broke his rhythm, I undermined his will. All that’s left is to finish what I started.

The Treasure Guardian’s HP: 14 - 5 = 9

!dice 2D6

Roll the dice... ⚂ 3 + ⚃ 4 = 7

The Treasure Guardian's Attack : 6 - 3 = 3

The goalkeeper, realizing that his integrity was at an end, abandoned any notion of a measured strategy. In a silent scream that makes the tiles beneath my feet vibrate, he decides to go for everything. He no longer seeks to hit me with his limbs, but to crush me by the very mass of his existence.

He projects himself forward, his arms spread as if for a fatal embrace, and the ground trembles violently under his excessive steps. I have no lateral exit; the walls of the room seem to close in on me as it charges, releasing an aura of telluric pressure. At the last moment, he presses his hands together in a crushing motion, triggering a frontal shock wave.

The air becomes solid under pressure, hitting me hard. The violence of the breath lifts me up and throws me against a column of stone several meters behind me. The shock is brutal, the world falls into a whirlwind of golden dust and stone shards. I fall back heavily, my back bruised, the breath totally torn off. He put all his remaining power into this gesture, a desperate attack that lets silence return, suddenly, in the room. I am on the ground, dizzy, but I realize with icy clarity that this was his ultimate burst of strength.

Etienne Moreau's HP: 14 - 3 = 11

Etienne Moreau's Attack: 6 - 3 = 3

I roll on my side before the impact completely cuts me, the gold dust blinding me for a moment. My back burns against the stone, but I manage to raise my weapon in time to dampen the second wave of pressure that falls on me. I hold on, my feet deep in the ground, my arms stretched out to take the shock. The pain runs through my whole body, but it doesn’t stop me. I turn his strength into a recoil, letting his own momentum make me slip rather than break me.

Then, as his attack ended and his balance wavered for a fraction of a second, I leapt forward. I’m aiming for the same flaw as before, this opening weakened by my previous moves. My weapon goes in a short arc, fast, precise, and strikes just below the line of its cracked armor. This time, the shock is sharper: a dull vibration rises in my arm, followed by a sharp crack in the carapace of the guardian. He’s stumbling. His guard opens more, and I feel that my counterattack has finally broken through his defense.

The Treasure Guardian's HP: 9 - 3 = 6

!roll 2D6

Roll the dice... ⚅ 6 + ⚅ 6 = 12

The Treasure Guardian's Attack: 6 - 6 = 0

The guard tries one last time to pull himself together, a gesture that claims to be imperious, almost royal. He raises his massive arm to deliver a devastating punch, seeking to seal my fate in this sanctuary. But at the top of its arc, the mechanics give out. Metal, once fluid and formidable, freezes in a sudden stiffness, betrayed by the exhaustion of its essence. His arm does not descend with the promised speed; it stops in mid-flight, oscillating limply in a vacuum in a hissing of agonizing vapor

 He loses his balance, his joints creaking like a door rusted under a storm, and his fist misses my head by several dozen centimeters to hit the ground with a hollow, dull noise, far from any offensive intent. He remains there, bent over, the body heavily leaning on this immobilized arm, unable to straighten up. The raw power that made his terror has evaporated, replaced by the fragility of a relic that is only a breath away from dust.

He is at my mercy, the breath short, his eyes projecting only an erratic and weakened gleam. This is the opening I was waiting for: the monument collapses from the inside, and I know that the next blow will be the last.

Etienne Moreau's HP: 11-0 = 11

Etienne Moreau's Attack: 6 -6 = 0

I rush, my heart beating against my bruised ribs, moved by the certainty that this time it’s the end. I gather my last strength in a desperate rush, my weapon ready to cut through the air to carry the final crash. But the moment I throw my weight to strike, my body betrays me. My knees, exhausted by the struggle and pain, are slipping under me.

The fatigue that seeped into my fibers like a poison slows down my actions. Instead of a sharp and fatal blow, my movement is sorely lacking in power. My weapon only skims the surface of his armor, slipping softly on metal without even leaving a new scratch.

The sound of the impact is pathetic, a simple ringing muffled by the silence of the room. I stumble, dragged by my own inertia, and end up collapsing on my knees, short of breath, unable to take back my guard. I am at the end of my strength, my hands trembling, realizing with a lucid terror that if I do not find an unsuspected reserve of energy, it is me who will sink first.

The Treasure Guardian's HP: 6 - 0 =6

!roll 2D6

Roll the dice... ⚃ 4 + ⚁ 2 = 6

The Treasure Guardian's Attack: 6 - 4 = 2

The guard, though at death’s door, perceives my collapse. A strident whistling sound, like that of a pierced bellows, escapes from his metal chest. He recovers with a painful slowness, each joint groaning under the effort to regain his stature. He does not throw himself at me to finish me off, but a residual logic, anchored in his primary functions, drives him to act. He raises a heavy hand, a gesture of mechanical stiffness, and lets his backside fall back onto my shoulder.

The coup is devoid of all initial fury, but its mass remains considerable. The impact makes me tilt violently to my side, my cheek encountering the cold hardness of the ground strewn with bones. A sharp pain irradiates my arm, a new wound, superficial but burning, that reminds me sorely of my vulnerability.

He remains there, leaning over me, his body tilting slightly in a moan of crushed stone. This is not an execution; it is a warning, a last attempt on his part to maintain order in this sanctuary. He waits, motionless, dominating me from all his height, waiting to see if this pain is enough to extinguish me or if, against all logic, I will find the strength to stand up one last time.

Etienne Moreau's HP: 11 - 2 = 9

Etienne Moreau's Attack: 6 - 2 = 4

The dazzling pain in my shoulder gives me a sudden clarity, a spark of survival that nothing can extinguish. As I fell, my hand found support on one of the bones littering the ground, an ancient femur that had become a makeshift weapon. Without thinking, in a wild reflex, I use it as a lever to propel myself forward, using the very weight of my body to slip under his hesitant guard.

 I no longer seek to decide, but to disarticulate. I plunge the tip of my weapon into the joint of his knee, already weakened by our exchanges. A dry crack, like a dead branch that breaks under the frost, echoes in the room. The guard suddenly collapses on this faulty leg. The black steam escaping from his chest increased in intensity, whistling like a cornered snake.

His imposing stature, once so intimidating, is now nothing more than a crumbling architecture. As I step back, I see his gaze flicker violently: the gleam in his eyes is no more than a dying spark, a sign that his core, his source of power, is gravely compromised. He is now on his knees, a wreck of stone and metal, completely unable to recover.

The Treasure Guardian' HP: 6 - 4 = 2

!roll 2D6

Roll the dice... ⚅ 6 + ⚂ 3 = 9

The Treasure Guardian's Attack: 6 - 6 = 0

The guard is desperately trying to get up. Its mechanisms emit a series of heartbreaking squeaks, a metallic complaint that seems to saturate the air in the room. He tries to pivot to face me, his hands plowing the golden soil, seeking a support that slips away under him. But his will, as rigid as his structure, clashes with the evidence of his ruin.

His right arm, the same one that just hit me, remains motionless, suspended in an impossible angle. When he tries to strike again, the movement fails miserably: his joints block, locking in a spasm of twisted metal. He is no more than a machine in agony whose circuits now respond only to distant combat echoes.

He then freezes, the bust cantilevering, a dark vapor escaping from all his joints. He can no longer strike or protect himself; he is a prisoner of his own weight. The silence falls on the room, barely disturbed by the clattering of metals that suddenly cool down. He is there, face down on the ground, his aura of threat completely dissipated. The question is no longer whether he will attack me, but how long does he have before he too becomes a mere pile of debris in the middle of this sea of gold?

Etienne Moreau's HP: 9 - 0 = 9

Etienne Moreau's Attack: 6 - 3 = 3

I get back up, each muscle screaming its protest, but my gaze never leaves the nerve center of his defeat: the gaping fissure in the center of his chest, where the dark glow palpitates like a tired heart. He is prostrate, a relic broken in the midst of the riches that he has kept for too long. I approach, my breathing short, the weight of my weapon seeming to increase tenfold. I no longer feel hatred, only the urgent need to close this chapter. I place the tip of my blade at the very heart of the rift.

The metal sizzles, reacting violently on contact with the energy that burns inside it. I don’t hesitate. I push with all my weight, sinking steel deeply into what serves as its soul. A prolonged, almost human whistling escapes from his lips of stone. The dark glow inside him explodes into a silent shockwave, sweeping gold dust around us.

Then, everything comes to a stop. His massive posture finally collapses, definitively, and the silence that invades the room is total, heavy, absolute. The guardian is now an inert mass, a terraced monument, while I remain alone, panting, in the middle of the treasure he has protected for centuries.

The Treasure Guardian' HP: 2 - 3 = -1

Etienne Moreau's HP: 9 + 3 = 11

I catch my breath, the silence of the downed guard weighing even heavier than his metal noise. I extricate myself from the area where this inert carcass now lies and, as my footsteps lead me further into the bowels of the chamber, the gold on the ground changes its appearance. He no longer shines with that noble brilliance, but seems... corrupt. A few meters from the throne, a shadow stands out from the background.

It is not a statue. It is not a sentinel. It’s **The Devourer**. His silhouette is an insult to form, a moving mass made of viscous darkness and supernumerary limbs that seem to come out of nowhere. He has no armor, no carved face; he seems to be composed of all that men have desired, a shapeless aggregation of melted crowns, twisted chains and voracious desires.

He does not guard the treasure: he feeds on it. He detects my presence even before I can stabilize my guard. He does not roar, he sucks up the air around him, an excruciating sucking sound. Her multiple eyes, like tarnished gold coins, fixed on me. I immediately feel a physical attraction, an invisible force that tries to empty my mind, as if my own ambition were a prey that it was about to devour. Fear, this time, is different. It is no longer a physical pain, but a feeling of absolute emptiness. I am wounded, exhausted, and in front of me stands the very incarnation of greed, a creature that does not seek to beat me, but to erase me.

The Devourer's HP: 21

!roll 2D6

Roll the dice... ⚃ 4 + ⚁ 2 = 6

The Devoureur's Attack: 6 - 4 = 2

The air around me seems to densify, turning into an icy molasses that slows down my reflexes. Without the slightest warning, an outgrowth of the creature—a dark appendage, like an arm made of metallic reflections and emptiness—bursts out from its central mass. The blow is not a simple strike, it is a scratch that crosses my shoulder and side, tearing off not only the fabric of my cuirasse, but also sucking up a part of my vital heat.

The pain is dazzling, a sensation of chemical burning that immediately seeps into my already open wounds. This is not a classic physical shock, it’s a bite that directly attacks my nerves, already frayed after the fight against the guard. I collapse, a strangled scream dying in my throat. The contact with the creature left a dark trail on my skin, a numbness that runs up my arm. I am weak, far too weak for this horror.

Every beat of my heart resonates in my wounds like a knell, and I realize that **The Devourer** doesn’t just hurt me: it delights in my downfall, taking advantage of every ounce of energy I lose to make myself bigger, denser. I try to regain support on my weapon, but my hands shake violently. The end seems near, and this time, death does not wear stone armor; she has the insatiable face of my own regrets.

Etienne Moreau's HP: 6 - 2 = 4

Etienne Moreau's Attack: 6 - 2 = 4

I refuse to become a feast. As the numbness tries to invade my mind, I tap into this very pain to regain a form of sharp lucidity. I know that this thing is not afraid of pure steel, but it fears the excess of what it devours. I pick up a handful of gold coins strewn on the ground—these riches that he has eagerly absorbed—and, in a desperate gesture, I project them towards his shapeless center. As he grabs it by greedy reflex, I rush with my own weapon.

I am not aiming at his body, but at the bond that holds his mass together, where objects overlap in a confusion of metal and shadow. My blade sinks deep, striking the creature’s corrupt heart. An ignoble sound, a mixture of stifled laughter and crushed metal, bursts into the room. A viscous black substance gushes from the gash, smoking, corrosive.

The Devourer suddenly retracts, releasing a shockwave that almost takes me away, but this time, I see the result: its shape distorts, losing some of its density. He has just suffered a real injury, a laceration that does not close, revealing the vulnerability of this insatiable horror. For the first time, it’s not me who is backing down, but him.

The Devourer's HP: 21 - 4 = 17

!roll 2D6

Roll the dice... ⚂ 3 + ⚅ 6 = 9

The Devourer's Attack: 6 - 3 = 3

The creature, feeling its own dissolution, does not content itself with wasting away: it explodes in a final spasm of unheard-of violence. His agony becomes a weapon. In a burst of pure hatred, the Devourer throws all his corrupt mass at me, no longer as a structured entity, but as a shockwave of vacuum and burning metal. I am literally swept away by this black wave. The impact propels me across the room, causing me to hit the stone base of the throne brutally. I miss the breath, replaced by an icy burn that goes up to my lungs.

I feel the blood, hot and viscous, dripping on my face and saturating my clothes. Every bit of my body screams, the shock has been so brutal that my bones seem to vibrate in pain. I am thrown to the ground, unable to move, the world around me becoming a blur of darkness and golden reflections dancing before my eyes. I am no more than a broken puppet at the foot of the throne.

My vision flickers, darkens, and I realize with frightening clarity that I am on the verge of permanent collapse. The Devourer is dying, but his last rattle almost took the rest of my soul with him. I am here, motionless, on the edge of the abyss, feeling life escape through my gaping wounds.

Etienne Moreau's HP: 4 - 3 = 1

Etienne Moreau's Attack: 6 - 6 = 0

My fingers, once so firm on the hilt of my weapon, are now nothing but inert bark. I try to inhale, but the air has become scarce, saturated by the black smoke that emanates from the moribund creature. Every attempt to catch my breath ends up with a tearing whistle in my chest, a mechanical whine that rivals the monster’s last spasms.

My will, this engine that has carried me so far, seems to have disconnected. I want to sit up, I want to scream my challenge, but the signal no longer crosses the barrier of my pain. My body is now a dead weight, anchored to the ground by absolute exhaustion and the impact of the shock against the throne. I see everything, however.

I see the fragments of the Devourer scattering like cursed ashes. I see the brilliance of the Golden Throne, so close, yet so inaccessible. My consciousness, like a flickering flame in a cold wind, threatens to die away with every heartbeat. I am no longer Stephen the conqueror, nor Stephen the fighter. I am just a broken figure in a forgotten room. The silence returns, permanent, while the darkness nibbles at the edges of my field of vision. I can no longer react. I can no longer fight. I can only contemplate the end, waiting for the next breath that may never come.

The Devourer's HP: 17 - 0 = 17

!roll 2D6

Roll the dice... ⚁ 2 + ⚁ 2 = 4

The Devorer's Attack: 6 - 2 = 4

As my consciousness darkens in the dark, a gigantic shadow projects over me. The Devourer, in a final spasm of fury, briefly reforms himself into a blade of dark energy, a pinch of pure greed aiming at my heart to erase me forever. Death is here, cold and imminent. By a pure survival reflex, engraved in my muscles despite the fatigue, my left hand searches my bag mechanically, uncovering the *Shield Iron*.

This shield, which I wore more out of habit than out of hope, slips between my trembling fingers and unfurls just in front of my chest at the precise moment when the strike falls. The shock is titanic. The metal of the shield groans, the runes engraved on it light up with an intense bluish sheen, absorbing the shock wave of the monster. The black energy of the Devourer ricochets against the polished surface, scattering darkness throughout the room.

The force feedback makes me vibrate to the bones, and my teeth clack together, but the blade hasn’t hit its target. The shield held. The destructive wave crashed against this barrier, protecting what remained of my breath. I am thrown back, dizzy, the shield smoking in my hands, but I am alive. The silence that follows is this time that of the true agony of the beast, which disintegrates for good, unable to cross the protection of this ultimate rampart.

Etienne Moreau's HP: 1 - 4 blocked by the Iron Shield = 1

Etienne Moreau's Attack: 6-2 = 4

The silence returned, only disturbed by the crackling of my own armor that is getting cold. The *Shield Iron* is burning up under my hand, still vibrating from the impact, but it has done its work. I am alive, though every millimetre of my body now seems composed of lead and broken glass. I try to move. The slightest movement is an agony, a betrayal.

My muscles, exhausted, refuse to answer, but my mind refuses to go out. I drag myself, centimeter by centimeter, using the tip of my weapon like an ice axe to grip the ground strewn with gold coins. Each slip costs me a superhuman effort, a test of will against my own failure.

I do not look back, I do not look at the monster that dissipates into a fetid vapor. I only see the throne, this golden mace that seems to mock my weakness. I pull myself up against the wall of a column, my breath short and whistling, the blood impregnating my clothes with leather and metal. I am at the end of my strength, my field of vision is a narrow skylight lined with darkness, but I continue.

Because if I stop here, in this pile of abandoned wealth, I become what the wizard predicted: another bone in this cemetery. And this thought, more powerful than pain, is the only thing that allows me to place a hand on the cold plinth of the throne and try, one last time, to stand up.

I manage to straighten my torso, leaning against the cold base of the throne, my breath short and erratic. As I lift myself up painfully, I notice that the remains of the *Devourer*, still quivering from this dark energy, are moving weakly on the ground, attempting an ultimate and pathetic agglomeration. It is there, in this burst of survival of the beast, that my gaze rests on an area of its essence which is no longer protected by any solid form.

Without thinking, in a gesture that draws on my last reserves of energy, I unbuckle my weapon which had remained planted in the ground nearby and, with a movement as sharp as desperate, I project it towards this vulnerable point. .

The Devourer's HP: 17 - 4 = 13

!roll 2D6

Roll the dice... ⚂ 3 + ⚀ 1 = 4

The Devourer's Attack: 6 - 3 = 3

The creature, feeling its substance dissipate, no longer seeks to rebuild itself. She attempts a desperate maneuver: she pours out all her accumulated venom, all its corruption condensed into a directional shockwave, a jet of pure shadow directed straight at my chest. It is a flow of viscous darkness that seems to absorb the light itself, a last voracious breath destined to carry me away with him into nothingness.

There is no hesitation in his gesture, only the cold determination of an inevitable end. The wave hits head on, a force of attraction so powerful that it tears the air around me, making my bones vibrate to the marrow. I feel my wounds opening violently, my blood being sucked out by the pressure of the vacuum. The shock literally nails me to the base of the throne.

The pain is such that it turns white, a total eclipse of my senses. I am suspended in this moment, strangled by the force of the Devourer who refuses to go out without having snatched my soul. Her shadow seeps under my breastplate, burning my skin, seeking my heart, seeking to transform my last breath into its ultimate feast. Death now has a concrete form, and it is devouring me from within.

Etienne Moreau's HP: 1 - 3 = -2

The silence falls on the room, broken only by the faint whistle of the steam that escapes from the last pockets of corruption on the ground. My body, now freed from the weight of this senseless struggle, slowly slides down the cold plinth of the throne to slump into gold, among the arms and crowns.

I am a motionless figure, a puppet whose threads have been cut off. My head falls back against the stone, offering a dull vision to eyes that no longer see anything. My breastplate, once forged for battle, is torn apart, revealing the pallor of my skin, filled with the dark marks of the Devourer’s bite. My arm, the one who held my weapon a few moments ago, lies loose along my side, fingers clenched in a vain embrace on the cold metal.

There is no more breath, no more pain, no more of this rage that pushed me to defy fate. I am no longer Étienne; I am an addition to the collection, a silent witness of the warning that the sorcerer keeps within these walls. The golden light of the room seems to reflect on my lifeless armor with cruel indifference. I have become part of the treasure. Part of the décor. Another relic, abandoned here, at the feet of a throne that is now waiting only for the next adventurer crazy enough to believe, him too, that he is different.

THE END

Published: 2026-04-29, viewed 65 times.